


The Loneliness of Grief

by Anonymous



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Canonical Character Death, Dealing with Psychological Trauma, Gen, Implied Canon Divergence, Past Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-26
Updated: 2021-03-26
Packaged: 2021-03-28 02:14:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,015
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30132441
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Fëanor was not the only elf in Valinor to have lost a mother, even if the rest were lost before.Finwë had not realized what a difference it would make for Fëanor to know.
Relationships: Fëanor | Curufinwë & Finwë
Comments: 5
Kudos: 25
Collections: Worldbuilding Exchange 2021





	The Loneliness of Grief

**Author's Note:**

  * For [elwinfortuna](https://archiveofourown.org/users/elwinfortuna/gifts).



“You had a mother.”

Finwë whirled around at the words. Fëanor stood in the doorway, spots of color high on his cheeks and panting as though he had run miles to stand there. His hands clenched and unclenched around the fabric of his shirt as he watched Finwë. 

“Yes,” Finwë said, for want of anything better to say, when he did not even know how Fëanor had come to speak of her. 

It was not that he had tried to hide her from his children. He had not lied to them, or misled them to believe that he was one of the Unbegotten, formed from the earth. But he had not told them of her, and of his father beside her, gone and left in Cuiviénen. He had never managed to swallow around the grief in his own throat to tell them of the good memories he had of them. 

Fëanor inhaled another gasping breath. “Why did you not tell me of her? Why did you not tell any of us of her fate, when they say-”

He did not finish. Finwë crossed the room, pulling Fëanor towards him after he had reached his eldest son and unsure of what exactly Fëanor referred to. 

He took a moment to think of what he could say. It had seemed so obvious in the rush of happiness when they had first arrived to decide that they would not blemish the joy of Valinor with the griefs of other lands. 

“I did not wish to add new griefs on existing ones, when you had already suffered more than any child in Valinor should. It did not seem wise to pile the griefs of our old lives on your new ones, when I had hoped to shelter those in these lands from all the sorrows that had occurred there.” As he spoke, Finwë backed them further into the room until they had reached the couch. Once there, he sat, pulling Fëanor down beside him, taking a breath to steady himself. 

When Fëanor did not speak to question him, he continued, “But I do not know of what you speak when you say they. Who, Fëanáro?” 

“I do not know all their names,” Fëanor said. His eyes darted towards the floor, as he refused to allow his father to meet his gaze. “Elves in the city. They speak amongst themselves mostly, seldom to me.”

Finwë suppressed the urge to sigh. It had been easier when Fëanor was a child, fully prepared to say anything that came to his mind. “If you will not tell me who, tell me what they speak of. Why would speaking of my parents help you?”

Fëanor hesitated again, before sighing himself. “If I do not tell you, Findis will. She is the one who told me of your mother.” 

Finwë blinked at that. Findis should not have known either, and yet, he could not say he was surprised that his eldest daughter had somehow discovered it. That she was somehow involved in whatever troubled Fëanor was more concerning. 

“Is she one of the ones you were referring to?” Finwë asked. He hoped not, but with all that had occurred between his children. 

“No.” Fëanor tensed at the question. “She argues with them, though I have told her not to. I can defend my mother myself.” 

Finwë tried to make sense of all of it. Findis fighting with the mysterious they, Fëanor fighting with the same group but also trying to keep Findis from doing so, and all over a subject they had not yet spoken to Finwë of. “I am afraid I still do not understand. Why are both of you arguing with them, separately as it may be, and what arguments is Findis making on your behalf?” 

Fëanor continued to look at the floor. They sat in silence for several moments, Finwë unwilling to relax his hold on his son and Fëanor tense but unwilling to pull away. 

“They repeat parts of the Valar’s arguments for their own purposes,” Fëanor muttered at last. “Findis overheard Olwë speaking to one of his sons the last time he was in the city, and realized that for Indis and Ingwë to be related, they could not be part of the first generation. Nor did it seem sensible for you to be one of the Unbegotten, when Elwë and Ingwë could not be. After she realized that, she began questioning some of the others who arrived here with you.” 

The second part made some sense at least, though why Findis would have cared did not, nor did the beginning. “Which of the Valar’s arguments are they repeating? I am afraid you will have to be clearer.” 

“Mother’s death. They do not - they are suspicious of the only elf in Valinor whose mother died. Findis thought she could argue them away from their suspicion, if they were reminded others had suffered loss too,” Fëanor said. “I do not think she can, but she will not stop.” 

Finwë almost missed the last few sentences, fury consuming him at the thought of what they must have been saying for Findis to become embroiled in an argument on her half-brother’s behalf. Anger at the Valar filled him too for making their arguments public in the first place, and for exposing his son to the suspicion of others. 

Fëanor’s softly muttered words managed to break through his anger, however. “Findis said that she hoped it would help me to know I was not alone. I had not expected her to be so blunt.” 

“Fëanáro?” Finwë felt tears against his shoulder where Fëanor had come to rest. That was concerning too, for Fëanor had claimed to be too old for tears and this kind of comfort when he had left for Mahtan’s workshop the first time. 

“I-” For once, Fëanor did not finish his sentence. 

Finwë was left to think in silence, though he did not allow himself long to think. When he had barely managed to grasp onto a thought, he began to speak, a sudden hope filling him. Perhaps this did not have to be a new concern, but could be a new chance. “I did not know you felt so alone, nor that some had continued to spread gossip long after the Valar had made their decision.”

Fëanor lifted his chin at that, determination written across his face. “I did not wish you to know.” 

Finwë smiled faintly. “Nay, you seem to have thought it wiser to fight those battles on your own. But I would have wished to know, and I am glad that Findis has dragged the truth to light, for I would not have you or our people give credence to false beliefs. I would speak of the past to you, as well.” 

Fëanor appeared torn between desperate yearning and outright horror at the thought. “I would not have you speak of subjects you wish not to.” 

“I wish to speak of them,” Finwë said. He had not realized until he spoke how true it was, though it felt odd to consider speaking of his parents now. “I would have you speak too, if you are willing.” 

“What do you wish to know?” Fëanor asked. 

“What you mean when you say alone. More of what has been said about you,” Finwë began, knowing those conversations would be hard. It had been a long time since they had spoken on those topics, and Fëanor may not wish to speak of them now. “How many complaints I should expect to arrive on my desk regarding Findis, if you wish not to speak of the first two.” 

“Few concerning Findis. Rumil was there too, and when he realized what Findis spoke of, he took her part in the conversation.” The satisfied smile on Fëanor’s face left little doubt about how he expected that conversation to go. 

Finwë nodded at the words, noting that Fëanor had not answered the first two questions, and that his answer to the last seemed to suggest there would be complaints about the Loremasters instead. He could not bring himself to feel the usual irritation at Rumil for involving his children in yet more debates. 

Before he could speak again, Fëanor sat up, surprising him. “I did not know what I meant by it either, until Findis told me of your mother. But they all speak of my mother’s death, and at times it feels as though that alone defines me for them, because I am the only one to suffer that loss. But if your mother is dead too, and others as well, I am not the only one.” 

It was not as eloquent as most of Fëanor’s arguments, but Finwë hugged him closer for the lack of his normal precision. “No. You are not. Arda was marred before we arrived in these lands, and it remained marred after our arrival. The cause of the marring was not yours, nor mine, nor any of the deads’.” 

Fëanor nodded, before he dropped his head back against Finwë’s shoulder, averting his eyes once more. “Is it strange that I am glad to not be the only one?” 

Finwë thought for a moment of those long ago days under dark trees that he would soon tell Fëanor of, days spent huddled with other children with lost parents. “No. I was too.” 

There were no more questions for a time, as they sat in silence that for once did not feel fraught. 

“Will you tell me more of her?” Fëanor’s words were not entirely clear. He could have spoken of Míriel, the mother he guarded stories of as though they were the most precious thing in all of Valinor. He could have spoken of the grandmother he had not known existed. 

But it was not the same as the last time he had asked of Míriel. Instead of the biting questions Finwë had come to expect, the hows and whys of why Míriel had not returned, how Finwë could have remarried, how could Fëanor be expected to love his half-siblings, there was just the one. 

Finwë let out a breath. “What do you wish to know?”

Fëanor shifted a moment, considering. Finwë waited. 

“What do you wish me to know of them?” Fëanor finally asked. 

The Trees shone through the window as Finwë considered what he could speak of. “Your mother loved silver. She said it reminded her of the stars on the lake when we first met, and of the threads she wove first in those lands. Your grandmother loved golds and yellows, for they reminded her of the fires she loved too.”

Fëanor laughed at that, and for a moment Finwë was too startled by the sudden noise to know why. But then he laughed himself. “She would have loved your mother-name, and likely scolded me for not coming up with so fine a name myself.”

“She would not have liked you naming us after yourself?” Fëanor asked. 

Finwë laughed again, looking at where his younger sons were now approaching the palace. Fëanor could see them too, and yet he did not start to pull away as he had the last time. “She would have appreciated more creativity, I suspect.”

“Arafinwë will be glad she would have agreed with him,” Fëanor said at that, suddenly pulling himself up. 

Finwë blinked at the loss of contact, before he noticed the grin on Fëanor’s face and remembered the last thing he had said. “Do you mean Arafinwë does not like his name?”

“I did not say that,” Fëanor said, still smiling. 

Finwë could have pushed for more answers. Instead he only shook his head, laughing again. If this was the price of his sons for once amused at each other instead of feuding, it was well worth paying. 

“Will you stay for dinner with the two of them?” he asked instead. 

“Will you tell us more of them?” Fëanor asked. 

“Yes,” Finwë said, feeling hope again as Fëanor nodded instead of leaving. It was not the end of all their problems, but it was a start, Finwë thought. “I will.”


End file.
